


The Smallest Piece in Everything

by VexedBeverage



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Deaf Clint Barton, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Recovery, amalgamation of mcu and comic clint, getting better, i will probably have to add more tags as i go, just two dudes being clueless idiots, lucky is the goodest of bois, slow burn?, there will be sex at some point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23896135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VexedBeverage/pseuds/VexedBeverage
Summary: Clint just wanted to be left alone, unfortunately for him Steve is fished out of the water by the Winter Soldier and now Clint has a new tenant.-A character centred fic about recovering from trauma and how sometimes having someone else around is all that you need to make you want to take the leap from surviving to living.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, Winterhawk
Comments: 23
Kudos: 100





	1. Chapter 1

How did he keep ending up in these situations? All he had wanted was to have some kind of private place where he wouldn’t have to use his flagging energy to keep a mask in place so that his friends stopped giving him those looks. Just a place where he could collapse on a stupid lumpy couch and binge watch bad TV and drink beer after beer without Tony Stark, of all people, giving him the side eye for just how much time he spent drinking. 

His blood alcohol level was definitely too high to be tussling with a bunch of tracksuit wearing, wannabe gangsta assholes, especially when said assholes all had guns. 

Clint twisted his body as he launched himself over the table, sending one of the goons crashing into two others. He was lucky the room was small, it seemed his adversaries were worried about hitting each other with stray bullets and so the gunshots were sporadic at best. 

Landing with less grace than his usual, Clint kicked out at the chair in front of him, sending one guy to the ground with a shout. 

“Oh come on!” Clint whined as the door burst open to reveal yet more men. 

Springing over the table on his hands, Clint landed behind the last man who was in the room and delivered a punch to his temple that caused a cracking sound and a feeling of crunching cartilage in his hand. “Fuck!” Clint swore as he shook the one hand out, the other snatching up a gun before returning his attention to the door. “Are you head asshole?” Clint asked, pointing the gun directly at the man in the middle of the two others just inside the doorway. 

The man simply raised a brow at him, his two henchmen already had their guns trained on Clint. 

“Look, I didn’t actually come here to fight.” Clint said, not lowering his gun. “And as much fun as kicking your boys is, I came to talk about the building in Bed-Stuy.” 

When the man spoke, it was with an accent that was tinged with both Slavic and a bad approximation of the Brooklyn drawl. “You are the one causing us trouble.” He stated. 

Clint shrugged noncommittally. “Sending your boys in to collect the ever increasing rent was wearing a little thin.” When the man didn’t say anything in return Clint continued. “Look, I get it. You want the money for the building or whatever so you can keep all your minions in gold medallions and tracksuits like it’s still the 90’s, We all have nostalgia dude.” Clint paused, waiting for an interruption that didn’t come. “Wow you’re chatty.” 

“Kill him.” 

The words hadn’t even finished forming before Clint was moving. The gun in his hand letting off two non fatal shots as he launched himself under the table and away from the bullets being released by the two goons on either side of the man who had spoken. 

Clint wobbled a little as he sprang to his feet, the hot barrel of his gun only an inch from main asshole's forehead. Settling his weight on his right leg Clint hissed at the blood running down from his left thigh. “These were my favourite jeans!” Clint huffed, poking at the hole in the fabric with his free hand. He was pretty sure it was just a graze and that there wasn’t a bullet lodged in his thigh, he did not have the mental capacity to go digging for lead tonight. “Okay look. I’m gonna do you a deal, okay?” Clint asked, nudging the man between his eyes with the end of his gun. The man nodded quickly, obviously unprepared for being the last one of his men standing. Clint gestured with his free hand to the corner of the room. “That bag over there has a cool couple of mill in it. Sign the building over and it’s all yours.” 

\----------

He was tired. Always. 

Tired of trying to keep up with super soldiers and the enhanced, of keeping up with a god and another in a tin suit who he was pretty sure thought himself a god sometimes. It felt like his whole life had been scrambling to keep up with everyone around him, as a child, then the circus, SHIELD and now with this new team.

Mostly he was tired of being the wrong side of thirty with no real life to show for it. 

He didn't need to look to know that Tony was talking, Tony was always talking. 

"Can't hear you." Clint grunted, trying to walk the fine line between a normal talking volume and a shout without his ears in. 

The couch dipped as Tony sat down, too close as usual but Clint stayed slumped where he was, turning his head after taking a deep breath that he tried not to audibly sigh out. 

Tony regarded him for a few seconds, his head cocking to the side like a dog. Clint smirked at him and raised an eyebrow in invitation for Tony to start talking. 

Reading lips was not as easy as people thought, Tony was especially difficult with the speed with which words toppled out of his mouth. Clint caught most of it and made assumptions for any words he missed. “As fun as that sounds, I’m gonna have to give it a hard pass.” Clint said, trying to speak as clearly as he could. 

Tony tried again, his eyebrows drawn in what Clint supposed was meant to be some kind of puppy dog look. 

“I’m busy.” Clint huffed out when Tony had once again stopped talking. 

Tony narrowed his eyes as he asked what Clint could possibly be busy with. 

Clint flopped his left arm up for a moment before letting it fall back to the couch cushion in an approximation of pointing at theTV. The TV which was not even on. 

Apparently that was the last straw for the brunette beside him who got up and finally left him alone in the room. 

He should have been glad, it was what he thought he had wanted. Apparently that wasn’t the case, wanting to be left alone and being lonely at the same time was illogical but no one had ever accused Clint Barton of making any kind of sense. 

Clint groaned as he sat up, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees before burying his face in his hands. He sat for a few moments, rubbing at his face and swallowing past the dry lump that had seemed to lodge itself in his throat. 

He pushed himself to his feet, stumbling out of the room and down the hallway to his suite. The door closed quietly behind him as he stood just inside observing the room. It looked like a ridiculously expensive hotel or something out of one of those high end magazines, all black and white and chrome. It was fancy, expensive - too much for Clint and his scruffy sweat pants with a hole in the knee. Too much for someone who grew up with practically nothing. Just too much. 

It was bare too. Clint had seen the other Avengers' places in the tower; they were personal, lived in, homes. Clint’s suite was barely used at best. The only sign that anyone occasionally stayed here was the bedroom where his clothes spilled out of his duffel bag and onto the floor, even the toothbrush in the bathroom was something provided with the suite. 

Clint crouched down next to his duffel bag, taking a long breath through his nose before haphazardly stuffing the clothes back inside. He emptied the bedside draw of his phone charger, a tablet and his spare hearing aids. 

He cast a look around the bedroom before sweeping back into the living room of the suite then strode to the kitchen, took his other set of hearing aids out of their charger and shoved them, none to gently, into his ears before packing away the charger. 

Clint slung the duffel over his shoulder and left the suite, not even bothering to look back as he made his way towards the communal kitchen once again. “Hey, J?-” He said aloud, tilting his head upwards even though he knew that the AI wasn’t actually physically in the ceiling. “Where’s Steve?” 

“Captain Rogers is in his suite at the moment.” JARVIS answered. “Would you like me to let him know to expect you?” 

Clint released a long breath through his nose. “Yeah, let him know I’m on my way.” 

“Certainly sir.” 

Steve regarded him with curiosity when he answered the door. "You want to come in?" Steve asked, stepping to the side of the doorway so Clint could sidle past. 

Clint didn't answer verbally, instead just slipping past Steve into his suite. 

"Drink?" Steve asked brushing past Clint and heading for the fridge. 

Clint shook his head. "No, thanks." He answered before wetting his lips and clarifying. "This won't take long."

Steve turned and studied Clint for a moment, a bottle of water in his hand. "Something the matter?" 

Clint sighed heavily, hitching his duffel higher on his shoulder with one hand whilst the other raked through his messy blonde hair. "I, uh-" Clint wet his dry lips again, trying to force the words out. "- I'm done." He said shortly. Steve just watched him, confusion in his blue eyes. "With the Avengers." A pause. "And SHIELD." Still Steve said nothing. "I- It's over for me now." 

Clint watched as Steve very slowly put the water bottle down on the counter. "I'm not sure that I understand-?" It was like an unfinished question rather than a statement and Clint wasn't sure exactly how to answer it. Not without revealing too much, and that was that last thing he wanted to do. 

The hand that has been running through his hair clenched, fisting at the strands and pulling on his scalp. Clint tightened his grip further, letting the small amount of pain ground him. "It just- I can't" Clint let his hand drop from his head, resisting the urge to stamp his foot in irritation at his own inarticulate muttering. He took a breath, shallower than he would have liked to but unable to give in and take a large gulp of air and show Steve how hard this really was for him. Clint cleared his throat, raising his voice to a normal volume. "I'm retiring." A beat of silence followed. "I just came to let you know before I go."

"You're leaving now?" Steve asked, eyebrows raising on his forehead. "Without telling the team?" 

Clint shrugged the shoulder that wasn't supporting his duffel bag. 

Steve stepped around the counter and walked slowly towards Clint as if he was a wild animal liable to be spooked by sudden movements. 

He wasnt wrong. Clint took a step back, measured and slow even as his body screamed to be quicker, to run. 

Steve halted. His stance tense. "Clint-?" 

"Cap-?" Clint shot back, only flinching inside at the wounded look on Steve's face when he used his title. 

"Where will you go?" 

Clint shrugged his shoulder again. "I got somewhere." 

"You gonna tell me where?" Clint shook his head, looking away from the disappointed look that Steve gave him. Steve nodded slightly, as if it was just for himself and not Clint. "Okay." Steve said, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not going to stop you but you really should tell the rest of the team." 

Clint shook his head again. "They'll try and stop me. Make me stay. Make me keep fighting." 

Steve huffed a breath, sounding frustrated before letting out a resigned sigh. "Nat is going to kill me for letting you go." 

Clint's eyes misted over a little, he directed them towards his shoes studying the way his laces frayed into a thousand tiny fibres until he managed to blink back the tears that had been threatening to fall. Clint's left hand went to his pocket, a scrap of paper between his fingers when he withdrew it. "It's for a burner-" He explained as he placed the paper face up in the bowl that Steve kept by the door for his keys. "- if something happens-" Clint lets his sentence trail off, his attention lingering on the phone number he had placed in the bowl. 

Steve folded and unfolded his arms as he watched Clint for a few more seconds before taking a step towards him. 

Clint snapped out of his daze when he saw Steve move out of the corner of his eye. Clint dug deep, a smirk that he had used a million times pulling at his lips. "It's been real Cap." Clint said, turning and opening the door.

"Clint-" 

He threw one more look over his shoulder, shooting a lazy salute in the direction of the door but making sure his eyes did not settle on the other man. "I got places to be." Clint said before turning and striding towards the door for the stairs, not trusting that the elevator wouldn't be compromised if someone else from the team got wind of what he was doing before he managed to get out of the building. 

"Barton!" 

And that one hurt. The anger apparent in the way Steve had practically barked it at him. 

Clint almost fell down the stairs three times on his way out, running so fast that his feet kept slipping off the end of the steps. 

\---------

"Aw, come on! I already did my cardio for today!" Clint shouted over his shoulder as he sped around another building. 

Usually he would say that he wasn't one to run from a fight, but they had caught him out in the open and less prepared than a dry fuck. This wouldn't have been a problem if there weren't four of them, with guns, and for some reason a dog. 

Clint dove behind a dumpster, rolling to a stop against the unforgiving metal of a second dumpster with a loud, hollow, resounding thump. He scrambled around on the ground, looking for something, anything, to use as a weapon whilst berating himself over and over in his own head. 

"We know you're down here." One of the track suited thugs called, his voice taking on an almost melodic quality in his taunt. 

Clint had not found anything useful in his hiding place. He was screwed. Out of luck. Well and truly fucked. "Can we talk about this, guys?" 

Clint heard the sound of a chain rattling then the sound of a yelp. "Stop fucking tugging, you stupid mutt." The dog whined. 

"Vin, if you don't shut that fucking dog up I'm going to put a fucking bullet in its fucking brain." 

Another yelp followed, louder and more painful than the first and accompanied by the sound of what Clint could only assume was a kick to the dogs side. 

Clint used the small distraction to flick at the wheels on the dumpster with the toe of his sneakers, lifting the brakes before bracing himself with his shoulders against the metal. Clint's right leg rose from the floor, pressing against the wall behind the dumpster and pushing off with everything he had. 

He twisted as soon as the metal of the dumpster was no longer against his back, instead careening down the small incline of the alley towards the thugs. Clint hunched and ran forwards, hands outstretched to give further momentum to his improvised ram. 

The men scattered, one of them getting clipped by the dumpster and slamming face first into the wall, his nose more than likely broken. Clint used the edge of the dumpster to swing himself around, landing a hard kick to another ones face, sending him to the ground. 

Clint dropped to the floor, avoiding the wild aiming of the third guy's gun. Clint swept his legs out from under him before kicking the dropped gun away. 

The last guy stumbled backwards towards the street, he hadn't reached for his gun that Clint could see poking out the top of his pants riding low on his hip. "Attack Arrow!" The man said, voice a little high, to the dog who was attached to the other end of the chain that he had clutched in his fist. 

Clint shook his head slightly and smirked as the dog barked. Clint might not have ever had a dog of his own but he had known enough back in the circus to know the difference between a feral beast about to rip his throat out and a dog that just wanted to play. This dog was most definitely the latter. 

The thug yanked on the chain, the dog being bodily pulled back by his throat, a yelp followed by a choking whimper accompanied the action and Clint saw red. 

Kids and animals, it had always been Clint's problem. Even as a hardened agent with SHIELD, it had always been an issue. He had blown whole ops in the name of stopping cruelty to them and that was apparently something that hadn't changed since his resignation from either SHIELD or the superhero business. 

Something must have shown in his expression, his eyes maybe, because the guy in front of him ran, craning his neck to keep eyes on Clint as he tried to get away, dragging the dog with him. 

Clint stalked forwards, not even pausing as he bent to pick up one of the discarded guns as he moved. 

The thug grabbed his own gun from his hip, spinning and continuing to walk backwards as he rose it to point at Clint. 

The dog barked and tried to move away, yanking at the chain and causing the thugs aim to go wide a moment before the car slammed into him, sending him to the ground with a scream. 

Clint froze, watching as the car slowed for the smallest fraction of a second before speeding off twice as fast down the street. 

"You alive?" Clint asked once he had approached the man on the floor. The man groaned. Clint's quick visual assessment determining that he was probably not going to die in the next couple of hours. 

The dog was a separate issue. Clint could see blood pouring around its face, one leg seemed to be twisted in the wrong direction, probably broken. Its breathing was fast, shallow and sounded wet. That was not good. 

Without any real conscious thought, Clint knelt on the asphalt and gently ran a hand over what seemed to be an uninjured part of the dog. "Shh, shh. It's going to be okay." Clint crooned when the dog flinched at his touch. "I need to pick you up so I can get you to a vet, okay boy?" 

Why he was talking to the dog he didn't know, wasn't fully aware he was doing it out loud at this point. It felt right though, soothing. Something he wished that he had when he was scared and young and hurt, he was never much different than a dog back then anyway. 

He tried to be as gentle as possible. Pulling the chain from around the dog's neck and throwing it towards the semi conscious thug to his right, only feeling a slight bit of satisfaction when it connected with the man.

Clint kept up speaking nonsense at the dog. Telling him it was going to be okay, that he was sorry that he was hurting, that he was going to make it better as he rolled the dog over and into his arms. Clint clutched him to his chest. Blonde fur tickling at his bare forearms and blood soaking into his shirt. 

"You gotta hang on little buddy." Clint said as he started to move, trying to go as fast as possible without jostling the hurt animal. "There's a veterinarians office a couple of blocks over. You need to hold on, okay?" 

Asking questions to something that could not answer was not new to Clint. In fact this was probably a step up from trying to hold a conversation with the coffee maker or the arguments he got into with his bedroom door frame after it assaulted his toes when he was less than awake. At least this was another living, breathing thing. 

Clint practically flew up the steps to the door, kicking at one of the strips of wood in the door in lieu of knocking. "Hey! Emergency!" He shouted, still kicking. "Dying dog! We need help!" 

Two men appeared in the door, eyeing Clint for the briefest of moments. "Through here, quickly." One of them said, holding the door and then leading Clint into an examination room. "Put him down." He continued, gesturing to the gleaming metal table for the briefest of moments before he spun and snatched up some gloves out of a box. "What happened?"

Clint placed the dog down as gently as possible on what looked like his less injured side. "A car hit him." Clint answered. "He isn't mine. I-" Clint paused and ran a shaky hand through his own hair, completely oblivious to the fact he was smearing the dogs blood through it. "These assholes had him, he was on a choke chain and they were treating him like shit and I'm pretty sure they beat him."

The veterinarian nodded along, examining the dog as Clint spoke. "He's underweight." After a few more minutes of prodding the veterinarian snapped off one glove and pressed a button on his phone that was attached to the wall. "Beth, prep surgery one, I need you and Greg in there." 

"I'll pay for whatever he needs." Clint said, stepping back from the table. 

The veterinarian met his eye for the first time, a small smile that seemed to convey kindness on his lips. "Thought you said he wasn't yours?" 

Clint shrugged. "Not his fault that his owner is an asshole." 

"If he isn't chipped then he doesn't belong to anyone." The veterinarian said. "And if your assessment of his previous situation is accurate then I doubt he is." 

Clint's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "Okay, what's that mean?" 

"Means that if he isn't claimed once he's better that he'll be going to the pound." He explained. Another man entered the room, nodding to the veterinarian then scooping the dog into his arms. "From the preliminary he is likely to pull through this but not without some issues. His left eye is too damaged to save, the front leg should heal but it might still give him trouble and by my estimation he is probably 2 or 3 years old." 

Clint sighed. "Nobody wants a disabled dog, especially when it isn't a puppy anymore." He surmised. Fuck. If that wasn't some kind of cruel parallel to his own experiences in the system then he might have hesitated. But it wasn't. So he didn't. "I'll take him." He said. "After you work your magic." Clint unnecessary clarified. 

The veterinarian offered Clint another one of his small smiles. "You go on out and give Emily your details, fill out some paperwork for your dog and head home for the day. He's going to be out until at least this time tomorrow, we'll call you when you should come back to see him." 

Clint nodded. "Guess I better think of a name for him." 

"He's Lucky that someone like you was around when he needed them." The veterinarian said in parting before walking out the door that the dog had been taken through.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the other poor sniper boi.

Snatches of faces and words, afterimages burned onto his vision like flashes of lightning. Music and dancing and fist fights in alleys. An apartment. Ships and boxes of cargo and the unrelenting smell of drying seaweed. The feeling of a cotton shirt drying crusty against sweat and salt water. 

This water wasn't salt, not in any decent volume. His eyes had been open as he had hit, stayed open as he let himself sink like a rock, chasing the faint silhouette of the man in blue. 

It was easier to use his left arm to wrap around the man's waist, it locked in place allowing him to use his right to cup the water and pull them towards the surface. 

They were heavy, both of them together, especially when the man in blue was nothing but a dead weight trying to pull them back down to the riverbed. The strain was not insignificant after already engaging in combat. He was not at his most optimal. 

They broke the surface of the water, he struggled for a moment to find the bank in the darkness before shoving the man onto it and then pulling himself out. He needed some time. Just a couple of seconds, just a couple to cough the water out and get oxygen back into his lungs. Seconds of heaving breaths of air so cold that it felt like crystals of ice were forming in his lungs. 

Cold. 

Always cold. Cold and pain and the smell of coppery blood and the musky taste of leather in his mouth. Restraints, metal and unyielding. Bruises ringing his ankles and his one flesh wrist, bruises that faded so fast that he wasn't sure they were ever real in the first place. 

His hair hung in his eyes as he fought for a proper breath, one that would fill his lungs and calm his racing heart that he was sure would break out of his chest if he didn't get himself under control. 

His vision swam, black spots interspersed with flashes of bright white light. He should have noticed the man. Should have heard his hacking coughs and ragged breaths, should have heard his frantic speech and seen the careful movement before he was suddenly in front of him. 

The asset tensed, breath that he had been fighting so hard for only a moment ago stilled. His body screamed at him to take a breath, to give into the need for oxygen. Without it he would be unable to run, he knew this - yet it still did not come. 

He burned, from inside out. The burn in his chest from his empty lungs and racing heart. Burning from muscles that had been strained and abused beyond their capacity. Burning in his throat and mouth and eyes. 

The man kept talking to him, at him. The asset could not understand. The words were just noises, sounds with no pattern or beat or sense. 

Through the blurry veil that had descended over his eyes, the asset watched as the man drew closer, keeping to his knees in the dirt of the riverbank. 

The asset barely felt the heavy hit delivered between his shoulder blades past the relief of air being pulled into his body, chest heaving as each new breath wracked through him. 

He jolted as the world seemed to snap back into place around him. His senses all coming back to him at once. 

“...you’re going to be okay now Buck, I found you. It’s going to be okay.” The man kept repeating himself, his hand still between the asset’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry Bucky, I should never have left you after the train, I should have gone back and searched for you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” His voice broke as he spoke, a sob broke through as he paused to take a breath. 

The asset sprang to his feet, making sure to keep the man in sight. Steve Rogers, Captain America, his brain supplied him. His mission. “Why are you not dead?” The asset asked, voice flat. 

Steve knit his brows together for a moment. “I was frozen, crashed a plane into the ocean,” 

The asset shook his head and interrupted whatever else Steve was going to say. “No. You are my mission. Why are you not dead?” 

Steve rolled to his knees, telegraphing his movements carefully before rising slowly to his feet, his hand outstretched to show he was unarmed. “I don’t understand what you’re asking me.” 

“I was sent to kill you, I tried to-” He broke off for a moment, head spinning as he searched for the words. “-Why did I not leave you to drown in the river?” 

Captain America looked pained, something in his watery blue eyes seemed somehow wrong, as if the asset knew what they should look like somehow. "Because you know me. You're my friend." 

The asset shook his head, sending water droplets sailing into the night air around him. "No." It wasn't eloquent, it was overly simple, but it was the truth. "Weapons don't have friends." 

The asset was not sure how it was possible for the other man to look more broken at his words. He studied Captain America, watching him carefully as the man in blue took carefully managed breaths, he watched his Adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed a couple of times. 

Time stretched on for a minute or more before Captain America broke the silence. "You are a person and people have friends and you're my friend." 

The asset opened his mouth to reply in the negative again but a wave of something crashed through him. Images and sounds and a feeling of such certainty that he snapped his mouth closed again, his jaw clicking with the speed of it. A boy, small but with Captain America's face on his skinny little body. Steve. Squaring up to boys bigger than him, shouting threats and dripping stubbornness and insolence and fury. 

More. Stevie sick and weak and being so, so sure this was the winter that snuffed out the burning ball of flame that he always imagined lived inside Steve. 

Laughter and arguments and dabbing at the broken skin on Steve's knuckles with pungent rubbing alcohol, shooting him teasing words about starting fights as Steve flinched away from the stinging burn.

The asset took a ragged breath, not sure when his slow and even inhalations had changed. "You were small." He stated. "But only on the outside." He reasoned out loud. 

The smile that took over Captain America's face was like a sunrise, starting small at the corner of his mouth before blooming across his whole face. The asset blinked at him. "Yeah." Captain America - Steve - said. "After the serum, you said that my body was finally big enough to handle the amount of pig headedness." 

A sound escapes the asset. A sound that he didn't know he could make. A huff of breath out through his nose, something that he had heard on others, amusement. He froze again. Body going taught, hard. "I am not him."

Steve or Captain America or whatever he was supposed to be called looked in pain again. The smile that had been there disappearing so quickly that the asset was surprised it didn't make a noise when it did. "You're Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, you're Bucky - my best friend." Steve insisted. "You fell from a train and were taken by HYDRA, they gave you that arm and made you into The Winter Soldier but that is not who you are, not really." 

"I am not him." 

Steve's hands had started shaking, the asset wasn't sure if he was even aware of it. "Buck- please-" Broken voice, broken face, broken behind his eyes and in the trembling of his limbs in front of him. "You don't remember, but it's true. You are Bucky, you are my best friend. You are not a weapon or a thing, you're a person." 

"Not Bucky." The asset insisted, voice quiet but firm. "I need to leave." 

Steve nodded gently. "We. We need to leave."

The asset didn't move from his position. "Where?" His handlers were dead, he had failed his mission and they would be angry. They would punish and then the cold would be back, the nothingness of his lack of thoughts. Feelings wouldn't even be a memory and the asset did not want to forget. 

"You'll come with me?" Captain America asked, his voice seemingly filled with something that the asset couldn't really comprehend, something that his broken brain called 'hope'. 

"The organisation has been compromised, my handlers are dead, I have no way to reach my superiors." A pause. "I killed against orders, killed their operative. I am defective. Defective weapons are destroyed." 

"You're not-!" Steve didn't finish that thought aloud, instead he took a small step towards the asset. "I can take you somewhere safe. Somewhere they won't find you." 

The asset shook his head again. "I am compromised, the outcome of enemy interrogation techniques is uncertain whilst I am glitching." 

"What-? Buck-? No!" Captain America said with urgency lacing his tone. "No interrogation, no fucking-" Frustration was visible in every line of his body. "We can go somewhere away, I can take you to a safe place where there's no HYDRA or SHIELD or any other stupid acronym."

"Is that not against protocol?" 

"Fuck protocol!" Steve growled. "Fuck protocol and SHIELD and the fucking Avengers. You're here and you're Bucky and this is not the end of the fucking line." 

The last few words hit him like a slap to the face. Something familiar and warm and almost safe washing over him. "Okay."

\---------

He doesn't sleep. 

Steve, who had finally been able to somehow get the asset to stop calling him Captain America did. He slept curled into a ball in one of the too small beds in the dingy motel room. 

The asset could not sleep, wouldn't. It wasn't safe. Was never safe. Sleep was vulnerability and danger and weakness. Sleep was release and peace and not something that he could afford to indulge in. Weapons did not sleep. 

It had been two days since he had pulled Steve out of the water. Two days since he had defected, had become useless and broken and wrong. Two days since questions that had never and should never have started to form in the assets mind. 

What was he?

Steve insisted again and again that he was Bucky, that he was more than a weapon. Insisted that he was a man and a brother and a friend. Insisted that the asset was a person with autonomy and agency and wants and needs and desires. 

He wasn't. 

He couldn't be those things. He couldn't want or need or desire. He could choke down the food that Steve brought for them because he needed the fuel. He could attend to hygiene needs because everyone knows that if a weapon isn't kept clean it might malfunction. He could walk and talk and be because Steve needed that, not because he needed it for himself. 

Because he didn't.

Sleep was the one request he couldn't give in to, not even for the other man. He couldn't, wouldn't give in because he knew that no matter how many times Steve talked about efficiency and diminishing mental and motor functions without rest that sleep couldn't be a need. It couldn't be a need if he yearned so much for the sweet embrace of oblivion that sleep would give him. Couldn't be a need when it was the only thing that brought even the slightest hint of relief and pleasure to the asset. 

So the asset sat on the other bed, his back ramrod straight against the wall behind him. He sat and he watched Steve sleep, he let his eyes lose focus until only the vague shape of Steve curled into a ball was discernible. He listened to the even breathing and tried to clear his head of what felt like hundreds upon hundreds of thoughts and images from flying around and over and inside him. 

Steve woke with the appearance of slowness. The asset knew it wasn't the case. Steve's breathing hitched, coming faster in a split second. His body tensed, muscles bunching as awareness came to him all at once. He played it off, slowing his breathing before uncurling from the ball he had forced his large body into. His legs stretched out, feet poking out of the bottom of the covers that he had wrapped around himself. 

Steve turned his body, careful to shift himself rather than roll over and off of the small mattress. "Did you sleep at all?" Steve's voice was low, rough with sleep. 

"A weapo-" 

"Don't you dare fucking finish that sentence." Steve barked at him, sitting up in one swift movement and pinning the asset with a sharp stare that made his stomach clench. 

The asset stared back, eyes hard and unflinching. "I kept watch." 

Steve dragged a hand across his face before resting his elbows on his knees. "You don't need to keep watch." 

The asset didn't respond, instead he pulled his knees up onto the bed wrapping his arms around them and holding them to his chest. 

Steve stood abruptly and the asset managed to not react past the tightening of his arms around his knees. He watched Steve cross to the dresser and dig around in the large bag that held their supplies. Clothes and weapons and money, until he pulled out the phone they had purchased in the previous town. 

Steve didn't say anything to the asset as he pulled a small piece of crumpled paper from his pocket and turned the phone on. Steve shot him a look that he couldn't decipher before pulling the door to their room open and stepping outside into the predawn air. 

Had he moved closer he might have been able to hear both sides of the conversation. The door was thin and the glass of the window that Steve was pacing in front of was only single glazed, it only muffled Steve's words slightly. 

"Hey, it's Cap."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"World peace and to catch a fucking break?" 

Steve snorted in amusement down the phone. The asset didn't move from his position even though he wanted to observe Steve as he spoke to whoever was on the other end of the phone. 

"You hear about the fall?"

"I'm with him now."

The pause was longer and the asset could hear that the voice had risen in volume but still could not make out the words spoken. 

"Clint- stop. It's not like that- he-" 

"It's Bucky." Steve sounded tired as he said it.

"Yeah, all this time."

"I can't just-"

"I need to find somewhere he can go, somewhere safe whilst I try and figure out what the hell I should be doing next. You know I can't go to the others with this."

"He's my Nat, Clint. I can't-"

Steve stopped talking for a while, the asset isn't sure if he is listening to the person on the other end of the call or if he has hung up the phone until he speaks again, softer.

"Thank you. If there's anything-" 

"Yeah, we'll be a couple of days. Thank you Clint, really. I don't know what I would have done if-"

"Yeah, no. Okay. Thanks." 

Silence descended, the asset slowly loosened his hold on his knees and stretched his legs out again. Minutes passed before Steve opened the door and stepped back into the room. "I got somewhere for you to go." 

"I heard." The asset replied. "Where am I going?" 

"Brooklyn."


	3. Chapter 3

Clint had been out of the tower and out of contact with everyone from his previous life for over seven months before he got the call from Steve. 

Seven months of no missions, no aliens, no stupid tech rivals of Tony's who wanted to take down his team. 

Two months of constant naps and so much take out that he started craving what his brain could only call 'green' before Lucky came into his messed up life. 

Slowly things changed. Clint couldn't stay in bed all day, he had to walk Lucky. They couldn't survive on nothing but his stores of coffee and take out, Lucky needed actual dog food. Clint couldn't wallow and stagnate and just waste away, there was another living creature relying on him. Someone that needed Clint and yet didn't judge or criticise, just liked him as he was. 

Lucky didn't care when Clint wore the same pair of sweatpants for four days or when Clint took out his aids for days at a time rather than having to hear himself breathe. Lucky liked that Clint curled up on the couch under his purple blanket whilst staring at the TV, as long as Clint kept running his fingers through the fur at the base of Lucky's neck as he lay sprawled across Clint's legs. 

Lucky didn't make small talk or make Clint vocalise his feelings or thoughts or ask him to make life and death decisions that he always seemed to get wrong. 

Lucky was happy. Lucky was safe and warm and undemanding past his need to pee up a building or tree a couple of times a day. 

Clint wasn't so out of touch with humanity that he didn't realise his peace was going to be broken. Steve hadn't told Clint the state Barnes would be in when they arrived but Clint was willing to bet it wouldn't be great. How could it be? Clint had barely been brainwashed for three days, almost 3 years ago and still he couldn't get past it. Barnes had seventy years of Nazi brainwashing that Clint would bet wasn't achieved as simply as poking him in the chest with a magic stick. 

He knew how it would go. Steve would arrive like nothing had happened and leave Barnes with him and Clint would have to put on his big boy pants and fix him. Would be expected to make sure he was okay and be a friend to him. He would be expected to take care of him and talk to him and be some kind of unsanctioned fucking therapist for the Winter Soldier. 

He should have told Cap to fuck off. Should have come up with some undeniable reason as to why he couldn't come. Should have done everything he could to keep them away, but he hadn't. 

Barnes better like dogs or this was going to be even more of a fiasco than it already was. 

\----------

They arrived at dawn. Clint had barely been asleep for an hour or two before he was woken by Lucky nudging none too gently at his bare side where the covers had shifted in his sleep. At first Clint gently pushed Lucky away, mumbling about cold wet noses and turning over, but the dog was insistent and escalated from pokes of his nose to jumping on the bed and licking at Clint's face. 

Clint turned his head to the side to try and dodge Lucky's tongue, his eyes landing on his phone which was lit up and moving slightly on his bedside table as it vibrated. 

"Down, Luck." Clint commanded, pointing to the floor before snatching up one hearing aid and shoving it into his right ear. He blindly reached for his phone and slumped back onto his pillows, answering the call with nothing more than a grunt. 

"Clint-?" Steve. Of course it was. "Are you at your place?" He asked, continuing before Clint could answer. "We've been knocking and calling for twenty minutes."

Clint groaned again. "M'sleepin' Cap." He muttered. "Just-" Clint slapped the hand he wasn't using to hold the phone to his face and rubbed at his eyes. "Gimmie a sec-" He hit the end call button and shoved the phone into the pocket of his ratty sleep pants. 

Clint rolled out of bed, stumbling a little as his right foot tangled in his discarded shirt that he had stripped off before falling into bed mere hours ago. Clint shuffled to the door to the apartment, scratching idly at his bare stomach as he tried to force his brain awake. 

He flung the door open and turned, walking to the kitchen without exchanging a look or word with the two men on the other side. 

Lucky wasn't so anti social, his tail wagged so hard his whole back end moved as he nosed at the newcomers and rubbed himself against them like a cat on crack.

"-coffee-?" He tried to pitch it like a question, his back still to the other men. Awake he wasn't but he could try for some kind of polite. Maybe. 

"Yeah, thanks." Steve answered as he walked further into the room. 

Clint filled the coffee machine with water, dumped in an unmeasured amount of ground beans and finally turned around. 

Steve was hovering by the breakfast bar, hand on the back of one of the stools in question, Clint nodded at him and gestured in a way he hoped meant 'make yourself at home'. Steve sat, looking Clint over for a moment before turning his attention to the rest of the apartment. 

Barnes stood just inside the door looking like he was lost, his long hair falling into his face and his organic hand resting on Lucky's head whilst his other, metal hand held a large suitcase, a second case pushed against the wall behind him. 

"You want coffee?" Clint asked, catching Barnes' eye as his head shot up. 

Barnes flicked a glance to Steve before looking back at Clint. "Yes. Thank you." It was formal, stilted. Clint nodded once then turned to grab three mugs from the counter. 

Silence reigned between the men as the coffee maker dripped slowly. Barnes didn't move from by the door until Clint placed two cups of coffee onto the breakfast bar where Steve sat. 

Clint placed his own coffee on the counter next to the coffee machine, pulling himself onto the counter, sitting with his legs dangling towards the floor. 

Barnes approached slowly and cautiously, leaving his suitcase next to the other one. He pulled the stool next to Steve away from the other man before settling in it with about a foot of space between them. 

Clint held his cup with both hands, the warmth spreading through his fingers, almost too hot. "There's sugar and milk and stuff if you want-" Clint offered as he brought his own drink to his face for a sip. 

"Black's fine." Barnes mumbled, wrapping his flesh hand around the cup rather than using the handle. 

Steve hadn't touched his drink yet, instead dividing his time between watching both Clint and Barnes. "How have you been?" Steve asked.

Clint shrugged and took another mouthful of coffee to give him time to formulate a response that didn't make him sound as pathetic as he really was. "Fine- good." That had not sounded convincing in the slightest. 

Steve nodded at him. "That's good." More silence. "You uh- you got a dog." 

Clint quirked an eyebrow. "His name's Lucky." 

At the sound of his name Lucky trotted over to him, tail wagging lazily. Clint smiled down at the dog as he reared up on his back legs, placing his front paws on the counter between Clint's spread legs and nosing at his master's hand. 

Clint ruffled the dogs ears. "You probably want to go out, huh?" He asked the dog. Lucky nosed him again then whined, low and quiet. "Yeah, yeah. You know the drill." Clint said pointing to somewhere behind Steve and Barnes. "Get your shit whilst I put on a shirt." The dog didn't need anymore than that. He pushed back from the counter and excitedly made his way to a door next to the front door of the apartment. 

Clint slid from the counter and downed the rest of his coffee. "I need to go walk Lucky. It'll give you guys some time to say goodbye." With that Clint shuffled to his room to shove his feet into his worn sneakers, drag a T-shirt over his head and put his other hearing aid in. 

Steve and Barnes hadn't moved from the breakfast bar when he reentered the room. Averting his eyes he turned to where Lucky was pushing the closet door closed with his flank, his purple leash held in his mouth. Clint took the leash and clipped it to Lucky's collar. He paused with his hand on the door. "I'll be back in twenty. Was good to see you Cap." 

\---------

Clint walked longer than he usually would have at what could only be described as the asscrack of pre dawn, wanting to make sure that Steve would be gone by the time he got back. It didn't occur to Clint for almost half an hour that wanting Steve gone before he got back meant that Barnes would be alone in the apartment, able to look at and touch and do whatever he wanted in Clint's space. 

It wasn't like he had a lot of stuff that he was bothered about Barnes touching. It was just that the couple of things that he didn't want Barnes or anyone else to see or touch or have anything to do with were so precious and personal and private that just the thought of Barnes finding them made Clint's heart pound so fast that he went dizzy with it.

Lucky panted as hard as Clint when they arrived back at the building, neither of them used to running full out for so long. Lucky's tongue lolled out of his mouth and his tail thumped almost rhythmically against the wall as they climbed the six flights of stairs to the apartment. 

His thighs burned as they climbed. Clint clung to the hand rails, using his arms as much as possible to take the strain off his legs. It was rare for Clint to regret taking the top floor of the apartment building. He liked being up high, had for as long as he remembered but fuck, the building had so many stairs. 

Clint fumbled with his keys, hands shaking with worry or adrenaline or sheer exhaustion, he wasn't sure. Lukcy sat patiently on Clint's right foot, a grounding physical reminder that he was there as Clint took a deep breath and forced his hands to steady. He was a fucking sniper, his hands should be sure and efficient, not this bullshit. 

He was saved from having to hold back on slamming the door open and barging into the room by Lucky who nosed the door open with a heavy shove and trotted immediately to the kitchen so he could slurp noisily at his water bowl, his leash trailing behind him. 

Barnes hadn't appeared to have moved. He was still sitting at the breakfast bar, two empty cups in front of him. Clint felt Barnes' eyes on him as he closed the door with a quiet click before heading for the fridge to grab a bottle of water. 

"Sorry we took so long." Clint said after downing half the bottle in one go. "Lucky needed a run." He didn't know why he said it. Barnes hadn't asked and Clint certainly didn't owe him any kind of explanation even if he had of voiced a question. 

Barnes just looked at him for a minute. "It's fine." 

Clint nodded at him in acknowledgement then refilled his empty cup from earlier before gesturing with it at Barnes in a silent question. 

Barnes wasn't looking at him, didn't seem to be looking at anything from the unfocused and glazed over look in his eyes that were pointed towards some invisible point on the wall to Clint's left. 

Clint cleared his throat gently, trying not to startle the other man. "Hey, uhh, you want more coffee?" 

Much as he had earlier, Barnes snapped back to look at Clint so fast and sharp that Clint couldn't hide the hitch in his breath from the violence of it. "Sorry." Barnes mumbled, very much in contrast to the movement. 

Clint waved the coffee pot a little in question, Barned nodded. 

"I never asked what I should call you." Clint said as he took the step needed towards the breakfast bar to fill Barnes' cup. "Cap calls you Bucky, right?"

"M'not Bucky." He sounded tired, done. 

Clint nodded, retreated back to the counter and hoisted himself up to sit on it. "Okay" 

Barnes let out a long breath through his nose. It hadn't been a question but Barnes answered anyway. "Steve wants him back, but I'm not him." 

Clint could understand that on a painful, visceral level. "Who are you then?" He tried to make it sound as non confrontational as he could, voice pitched down. 

Barnes shrugged. "I have no idea." He sighed before continuing. "No one and too many people at once." 

Clint didn't ask him to elaborate, he wasn't sure he would be able to understand or if Barnes would even know the answer himself. "Who do you want to be?" He asked instead. 

Barnes looked up from his coffee cup slowly until he met Clint's eyes. "I don't know that either." A beat of silence. "I don't know a lot of things." 

Clint huffed an amused breath out his nose. "Well you have definitely come to the wrong place if you're expecting answers here, B. A font of knowledge and healthy healing I am not." 

Barnes tilted his head a little, contemplative. "B?" 

Clint shrugged at him. "Been calling you Barnes in my head but that seemed a bit formal since we're roomies now." 

"I like it." B grunted before taking his coffee in his metal hand and drinking it down in one. 

Clint followed suit, downing his drink before he slid off the counter to the floor, crouching and unclipping Lucky's leash from his collar. "Then that's what I'll call you, yeah?" Clint said. 

"Yeah," B answered unnecessarily. "What do I call you?" B asked as Clint swept past him to return Lucky's leash to the closet that he had retrieved it from earlier. "Steve called you a bunch of names."

Clint snorted a laugh. "I'll fucking bet he did." Clint mumbled, the look that B gave him meant that either Clint hadn't said it as quietly as he thought or B had very good hearing. 

"Not like that." 

Clint waved a hand dismissively. "I really don't give a shit what anyone calls me." 

"Clint-" B said, like he was trying it out. "That okay?" 

Clint nodded. "Yeah, like I said, whatever you want." 

B furrowed his brow, seeming almost hurt by Clint's dismissal of his own name. "I'm going to call you Clint." B stated, almost firm in his tone. 

"How about I give you a tour then I'll head off for a shower and you can unpack and get settled or whatever-?" 

B pushed himself to his feet. "Sure, sounds good."


	4. Chapter 4

He had a name. 

It might not have been the traditional way to get one, but it was his. It felt right. It wasn't deeply entrenched in who he used to be, who Steve still thought he was. 

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. Soldier. The asset. The weapon.

The Sergeant was bravery in the most literal sense, terrified yet continued on his path in a war that he was almost certain was going to kill him. He was manoeuvres, barracks, pushing himself past his limits and so damn tired that sometimes he hoped to make the kind of mistake that would get him away from the seemingly endless war, even if that was in a wooden box. 

James was mischief and boyish trouble. He made eyes at the pastor's daughter in church and got smacks on the back of his hand with his mother's wooden spoon for trying to sneak food before it was time to eat. 

Barnes was boot camp and bravado. He was manual labour and drinks down the docks after a long shift, sweat and sore muscles and the smell of cheap liquor mixing with stale cigarette smoke. 

Bucky was Steve's somehow. Bucky was easy charm and a slow drawl that brought smiles and laughter and light. Bucky was social and flirty and alive in a way none of the others seemed to be. Bucky was comfortable in everything he did, sure of himself and his place in the world. 

The soldier, the asset, the weapon. Cold and hard and blank like spent bullet casings. Efficient and unflinching. They weren't people, they were things, tools to be used by others to do a job. They weren't alive. They weren't real. 

B was something new, something without expectations attached to it like the other names. B was something that could be made by him, for him if he wanted. B was freedom and autonomy, B could be something else. Could be something none of the others were, or all of them maybe, he wasn't sure. 

Maybe he could make a whole person from all the parts. Keep the best and throw the worst aside like making a collage of a person. Like Doctor Frankenstein piecing together something that he thought was perfect and right. But some of the parts hurt. Bucky hurt, clawing and crying and struggling against what he had been made to do. The Sergeant was fighting so far in the opposite direction, lashing inwards until B could almost hear him begging for his own demise. James cried, begging for forgiveness from a deity that was always assumed but never really believed in, whilst the parts of him that were not people lay in wait for their chance to be numb and cold and distant again. 

Steve had barely said anything about Clint, just that he was trustworthy and that B would be safe with him. It had done nothing to unwind the tight knot of anxiety that had formed the moment Steve had told him that he was leaving him. 

B wasn't sure what to make of Clint. He had been friendly and much more accommodating than B thought he deserved considering he had been thrust upon the other man's life. 

After the stilted conversation where he was bestowed his name Clint had shown him around the apartment. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, open plan living space with a kitchen large enough for an entire family. A big couch with multiple blankets draped across the back of it, large TV and a ridiculously fluffy, purple shag rug covering up the majority of the hardwood floor in the living room area. 

B had taken it all in without context, he didn't know what he should think of the space, didn't remember enough from his own life and even if he had, that information was outdated, old, defunct. The only real impression he had that he thought might still be relevant in some way was that so much of it was purple, differing shades from a soft lilac to strong, deep purple that almost looked black. 

At Clint's suggestion he had shut himself in what was to be his bedroom to unpack his belongings that consisted of weapons and clothes that he and Steve had picked up once they hit New York. 

Something of Barnes must have come through as B lost himself to his task, the clothes meticulously folded and placed in drawers and on hangers, ordered by colour and spaced so evenly it looked like it had been done with a measuring tape.

A knock at the door broke him from his thoughts. "Hey, I'm gonna make some eggs, you want some?" Clint's voice was muffled slightly by the door. 

B's stomach rumbled at the mere thought of food. "Yeah, please." He answered, turning his face towards the closed door. 

When B emerged from his room he found Clint in the kitchen, snagging pieces of toast from the toaster and throwing them onto two plates whilst swearing under his breath. 

B watched as Clint hurriedly buttered the toast, throwing the knife down after the second piece so he could stir the eggs that were on the stove before going back to buttering. 

Clint slid a full plate of scrambled eggs and toast towards B, it came to rest a couple of inches from the edge of the table right in front of one of the dining chairs, a cup of coffee already sitting to the right of the plate. B raised an eyebrow but Clint just gestured to the table before walking over and setting his own plate down and practically falling into his chair. 

B sat, taking his cue from Clint and digging into the food. "Thank you." B said after his first bite was thoroughly chewed and swallowed. Clint just made a noncommittal noise around his full mouth. 

They ate in silence, B wasn't sure if it was an uncomfortable silence or if that was just him. Most everything was some kind of uncomfortable for B. 

Clint finished eating first, sat back and downed his coffee in one. B tried to concentrate on his eggs, he could feel Clint's eyes on him as he did but when he looked up Clint's blue eyes were darting around the room instead. 

"I'm sorry." B said as he pushed his empty plate a couple of inches further onto the table. Clint sent him a confused look so he continued. "Housing an unstable, brainwashed assassin with more blood on his hands than a slaughterhouse worker is probably not something you ever wanted to do." He paused for a moment. 

Clint snorted an amused sound before mumbling. "And here I thought we'd have nothing in common." 

"What?" B asked, his train of thought utterly derailed. 

Clint shook his head. "Nothing. Doesn't matter." He said, leaning forward in his chair to snatch up the two empty plates before retreating to the sink. 

B tried to sit still, hands resting on the table in front of him as Clint washed their plates and rested them gently on the drying rack. "What should-" B clicked his mouth shut. 

Clint spun around to look at him. "What should what?" He asked.

He wasn't going to ask. Shouldn't. But he had nothing to fall back on, social skills and misdirection had been lost to him in recent weeks. He wouldn't ask, couldn't. 

"B?" It was a question, a request to continue. It wasn't an order, it wasn't a directive, it wasn't sharp or hard or authoritative.

Yet he still answered, voice flat and even and dead. "Protocols." 

Clint's forehead creased in confusion. "Protocols?" 

B swallowed around the lump that had formed in his throat. "Yes." 

B watched as Clint seemed to mull over the word in his mind, watched as he must have come to some kind of conclusion because he leant back against the counter, posture purposely relaxed. "You need them?" Clint asked him, meeting his eye as he asked the question but then looking away as soon as it was spoken. 

B clenched his fists, the nails of his flesh hand digging into his palms so hard that they would leave indents. His eyes fell to the table and he forced himself to take measured breaths until he could relax both hands. 

Clint sighed gently, B was pretty sure he wasn't meant to have heard it. "Roommate rules," Clint said. "Number one - you stay out of my room and I stay out of yours, period."

"Affirmative." Fuck. He was supposed to nod or mutter a quiet 'sure' not fall back on the asset. 

Clint cleared his throat and nodded. "Okay, and rule two - if you finish the last of the coffee in the pot you make another one." 

B held his breath, willing himself to keep his mouth shut. He managed a sharp nod. 

"Rule three -" Clint said slowly before pausing for a few beats. "-uh, three is, don't feed Lucky anything that'll kill him 'cause he is a little shit and will beg for literally anything remotely food like." Lucky trotted over to Clint upon hearing his name, his nails clicking against the wood floor. "That's it, I guess." Clint finished, his hand reaching down to pet at Lucky absentmindedly. 

"That's all?" B queried. "What do you want me to do all day?" That was definitely not supposed to come out of his mouth. He wasn't looking for orders, he was supposed to be getting better, making decisions, having choices and his own preferences, not begging for assignments or missions or whatever the fuck that was supposed to have been. 

Clint shrugged at him. "Whatever the fuck you want." 

"What do you do?" 

Clint huffed an amused breath out his nose. "Honestly couldn't tell you." He grabbed the coffee pot, refilling his mug. "Watch Netflix, read shit, fuck around on the internet, walk Lucky, play video games." He listed. "Sleep for too long or not at all."

Silence descended for a touch too long before Clint spoke again. 

"Just, do whatever you like to do. Hobbies and shit, right?" 

B looked up at Clint, one eyebrow cocked high. 

"Hobbies?" B asked, his voice flat. "Sure, I used to crochet doilies and knit all the nazi's mittens between assassinations and cryo, I should pick it up again." 

Clint's eyes widened minutely for just a second before his lips twitched and a grin spread across his face. 

"Well, I don't know about mittens but fingerless gloves would be cool." Clint joked. "Purple's my favourite color, just so you know." 

B shook his head before darting his eyes around the room in an obvious survey. So much of the furnishings were purple, Clint himself was wearing a purple shirt. 

"You don't fucking say?" 

"Okay Sergeant Sarcasm. God, Steve did not tell me you were such a little shit." Clint was still grinning. 

*****

B wasn't sure what to make of Clint. Sometimes he seemed so at ease with himself, so relaxed that it was like he didn't have any bones when he slumped on the couch watching something ridiculous on the TV. Other times Clint was so obviously wound up with all his muscles tensed and coiled as if ready for an attack that it put B on edge just looking at him. 

It was easier to study his new roommate and the apartment than to try and figure himself out. Clint had been right about his sleep patterns. B could hear Clint tossing and turning in his bed at night, frustrated sounds carrying through the quiet of the apartment in the early hours. Clint would often give up on his bed and B would hear him stumble out of his room and collapse on the couch with the TV on without the sound. 

Perhaps it was the light that helped Clint, or the images of people. It could have been how Lucky would curl up on top of his feet, grounding him. 

B wasn't like that. Touch was still something that startled him. It made him uncomfortable to even think about someone laying a hand on him in any way, yet he craved it. Sometimes he would leave his door open so that Lucky would be able to come to him and he could bury his hands and face into the warm fur of the dogs neck to breathe in the smell and feel of something living. Sometimes he even missed Steve's affectionate pats between his shoulders or the way that their legs would inevitably touch when they stopped in diners to eat on their way to New York. It was confusing. 

*****

B was so sick of not sleeping. He had finally managed to convince himself that he needed it and that it wasn't something he could forgo for any longer, especially after he passed out from sheer exhaustion in the truck that Steve had driven to get them to New York. Yet sleep would not come. 

He was lucky if he got more than three or four hours every other night, and it was wearing hard on everything. 

The bed was comfortable. Far more comfortable than any he had slept in, even back when he was still a man, when he was still Bucky. The room was warm and he was warmer still, dressed in pyjama pants and a Tshirt, and swaddled in blankets. The heat of it pushed away thoughts of the tank and the numbing blankness of cryo, but it wasn't enough for him to sleep. 

The room was never truly completely dark. The barest hint of light edged around the closed curtains from the street lamps outside and more spilled through the small crack under the bedroom door. Clint hadn't even pretended to sleep yet, he had bid B a goodnight when B moved from the kitchen after filling a glass full of water and then disappeared into his room, but B had not heard him move from the couch since. 

B knew that most people are afraid of the dark. Something that starts in childhood with imaginings of monsters under the bed or in a closet. Darkness was scary and it was the unknown, but not for B. Darkness was safe. Darkness was being shrouded in shadows on a roof, ready to take out a target and so far away from his handlers and the base that he could breathe properly. Darkness was where he was put after they finished the experiments, thrown into his cell and finally left alone with his own thoughts before they inevitably came for him, wiped him and threw him back into the tank. The tank brought the best kind of darkness, the darkness he now craved and tried to chase by sleeping. 

The light was the problem. Light was examination tables and the chair. Light was training and beatings and briefings. Light was where he was the monster under the bed as he thrashed and screamed and bled for hours or days or decades. Light was exposure, it was scars and pity, anger and shame. Truth comes with light, and B was unbearably afraid of the truth of what had happened in his life and all the things he had done. 

He couldn't lie there anymore, too many memories of the asset assaulted him and he could not let those take him over in the darkness of his safe space. 

B kicked off his blankets not caring when they fell to a heap on the floor. He stood for a moment with his metal hand on the doorknob, his other raking through his long hair to try and push it out of his face. 

Clint turned sharply in his seat on the couch when the door opened, face alarmed. 

"Fuck. I didn't wake you, did I?" 

B shook his head.

"Haven't been to sleep yet."

"Well, shit. You've been in there hours." 

B shrugged at him but didn't move from standing in front of his bedroom door. 

Clint patted the cushion next to him before shuffling away to the other end of the couch. 

"Might as well join me. We can watch a movie or something." 

B made his way over slowly, watching as Clint pulled his feet up onto the couch and rearranged the blanket that had been in his lap to cover his whole body. 

Once he was sitting Clint threw the other end of the blanket over his legs. 

"Get comfy." Clint said as he reached out and grabbed the remote. "What you in the mood for?" 

B clutched the corner of the blanket in his real hand, it was thick and slightly fuzzy. After regarding Clint for a moment he turned in his seat so his back was pressed against the arm rest and pulled his feet up onto the spare cushion between him and Clint. The blanket covered his legs and pooled in his lap.

"I haven't really seen many movies." B admitted. "I remember posters sometimes, when I was on a mission. I'd see posters and wonder what it would be about."

"You remember any specifics? We could watch one of those." 

Clint flicked through options in the TV whilst B thought. 

"I was on a job in '55, had to watch this guy for days. I was on a roof with my rifle and I had to watch him through the scope whenever he was in and report what he was doing. Sometimes he went out and I still just had to lie there, it was hot and uncomfortable but if I turned the rifle a little I had a view of the side of a theater and there was a poster. It was some animated thing, like drawings and it had two dogs on it. It just kept drawing my attention cause it was bright yellow and I wondered what kind of movie you could make about dogs." 

Clint nodded along as he spoke but his eyes stayed on the TV as he navigated the menus until he stopped on one picture. 

"This it?" 

B felt himself smile. 

"No yellow, but yeah I think so. The dogs look the same." 

"Well, you're in for a treat, it's no Robin Hood but it's not a bad one." 

"'Lady and the Tramp'" B read aloud. "Weird name." 

Clint shrugged at him and hit play on the remote before slouching down further and pulling the blanket up to his chin as the Disney castle filled the screen and cast the room in a blue glow.

**Author's Note:**

> Con-crit welcome and encouraged. Sling me a review or hit me up on Tumblr


End file.
